


Wings of Desire (Der Himmel über London)

by sorion



Series: Dreamscapes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Introspection, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:51:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorion/pseuds/sorion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LAST PART in this ‘verse.<br/>They have only begun scratching at the surface of a bond that has every chance to last a lifetime, and they’re beginning to discover it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings of Desire (Der Himmel über London)

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "Scrooged" and "Secret Garden", following the dream/film theme (based on "Der Himmel über Berlin," or the English title "Wings of Desire").  
> As with the others, it’s somewhat unearthly (though not exactly supernatural like the first one). The characters are very aware of the destined nature of their bond, however.

London has always been his playground, full of people to read, crimes to solve, streets and nooks to learn. Sherlock lives and breathes this city, loving the unexpected imperfections the most, the ones that stand out with glowing contrast. A glaring battlefield, full of life and death, occupying his ever-greedy mind.

His brother, much as they disagree, understands this, revels in it himself to a certain degree. Ever since they were children, Mycroft told him that it was a rare and precious gift to live without the eternal baggage of emotion, being capable to read the people instead. And Sherlock has always agreed with him. He knows too well what those highly-praised emotions can do, how destructive they can become when unfulfilled, how they distort the people and their actions. It is much easier to merely observe and dissect the simple, black-and-white contrast their crimes leave in their wake. Much clearer.

Until, one day, John Watson enters Sherlock’s neat and clear-cut London of shadows. John is as straight forward as all the other emotion-ridden people, but unlike them, he is not repulsed by Sherlock’s way of seeing things.

_”Extraordinary! Fantastic! Amazing!”_

John is so unafraid to also agree with, “I’ve disappointed you,” and say, “Bit not good,” and even, “You machine!”

John is welcoming enough for Sherlock to become less afra- … that is… _dismissive_ of emotions. (Though that is not entirely accurate, is it, Sherlock? You _cannot_ dismiss the emotions, anymore, because you already feel them. Already crave John’s recognition, his unwavering loyalty, his… support, understanding, friendship, love.)

They remain mostly elusive (just because something is there, that doesn’t mean it’s tangible, even for the most remarkable of minds), but they do manage to tint his London in some colour.

London is no longer merely a playground; it morphs into a circus. A circus of _brilliant!_ and _fantastic!_ for John to discover.

 

He only realises the extent of his dependency once he no longer has his John to lean on. At first, he thinks the dark dread eating away at him is the knowledge of what his deceit must do to someone as emotional as his soldier doctor, and it takes him months to see that it is doing horrid things to him that are not fuelled by guilt. But by loss. Loneliness. Being scared for the first time in his life to do something somebody else (John) might consider bad, and not having him there to point it out, to pull Sherlock back.

Sherlock questions his approach, questions every death he has to bring upon with his own hands. John would understand the necessity of killing to protect, surely? Still, Sherlock questions, tries to imagine what John would say, but his image remains elusive.

 

Then the wandering is over, but can he face John again after the crimes he committed? The one crime against John?

In the end, it is not a question (it merely requires reminding). Sherlock cannot _not_ return. Sherlock Holmes is not Sherlock Holmes without John Watson. John Watson is not John Watson without Sherlock Holmes.

 

Sherlock has chosen this life, has chosen John, long before he knew that there was a choice.

 

He wakes up, and John is no longer lying next to him. But when he turns his head, the doctor is still seated in a chair next to the bed, holding vigil, smiling a very small smile once he has Sherlock’s attention.

John clears his throat after a moment of silence. “I’m still very angry with you.”

Sherlock gives a curt nod. “And will be for quite a while, I imagine.”

John nods in return. “But no matter how angry I am now or will get in the future, I… am so very glad that you’re back.” He averts his eyes. “Just making sure you know that. Because I _will_ get angry, and I want you to know…” He stops, unable to find the right words.

“That you care.”

“So much,” comes the immediate answer. “I mean,” he backtracks, “it wouldn’t have hurt as much if I didn’t.”

Sherlock ignores the backtracking and sobers. “I am deeply sorry.”

John nods, pensive. “Do you…” he finally says and pauses again. “Do you really understand?”

Sherlock breathes in sharply and sits.

John’s face contorts. “No, no,” he says, quickly. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“It was not,” Sherlock protests. “You know better than anyone that matters of an emotional nature are… not really my area.” He smiles thinly at the memory.

John nods. “I also know better than anyone how much you really feel. Whether you want to or not.”

After a moment, Sherlock murmurs, hardly more than a whisper, “Love is a much more vicious motivator.” It seems he is in a nostalgic mood, this morning.

John frowns in confusion. He wants to ask about _’love'_ , what he does ask is, “How vicious?” He knows that whatever Sherlock was forced to do in his absence, it must have been bad, and he finds that question to be more important than make Sherlock elaborate on elusive feelings.

Sherlock blinks and reluctantly returns the look. “Much more than either of us would be comfortable with.”

John licks his lips, sighs, looks at the floor and then peeks up. “If you… if you want to tell me about any of it…”

“Of course.”

“I’m serious, Sherlock. I know it couldn’t have been good. What you went through. Why you were gone.” He doesn’t know what to say or how to say it, only that he has to. “I… won’t judge you. If you want to talk about it, I’ll listen.” He huffs, impatient (at himself, not Sherlock). “It’s not like I have any room to talk, is it?” The smile is self-deprecating, and it takes a while, but, eventually, Sherlock returns it.

Sherlock hesitates. There are words at the tip of his tongue, but he looks like he’s not sure if they have a right to be there and should be spoken. If… John would still take them in the same spirit, despite of Sherlock’s betrayal.  
“They… weren’t very nice people,” he says, anyway.

John snorts a laugh before he can stop himself. He bites his lips. “I shouldn’t laugh.” He chuckles, nonetheless. “I really shouldn’t.”

Sherlock returns the smile haltingly. “Not good?”

John smiles widely, his eyes shining. “You bloody madman.” And once some of the tension leaves Sherlock’s body and the smile turns more genuine, John stands and walks over to the bed, pulling the sitting man into a hug.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s torso and breathes deeply into his sweater.

John runs both hands over the dark curls and finally presses a kiss onto the crown of Sherlock’s head. “Get up. You’re eating breakfast.”

Sherlock remembers the… dream, vision, whatever it was. Remembers John losing substance and walking straight through him. His fingers tighten in John’s jumper. “Just… one moment, please.” He moves sideways and swings his legs off the side of the bed, intensifying the contact between them.

John acquiesces, relaxes his arms once more. “Everything alright?” he murmurs into the soft hair.

“I never knew loneliness, John,” Sherlock says. “I was alone, but never lonely. Then there was you, and I was no longer alone. And then… I had to leave you behind.” He moves his head back to look at John, but remains in the embrace. Does John understand? It’s so hard to say…

“You need me,” John says, softly.

“Yes.”

“There isn’t really a better story than ours.” He huffs a small laugh. “Couldn’t be, could there? With you coming back from the dead? I guess Moriarty got his fairy tale ending, anyway.” He tilts his head and cups Sherlock’s cheek. “Sleeping Beauty? No, no, I know. Snow White. You’ve got the colouring and everything.”

Sherlock breathes out, sharply, smirking a bit, even though Snow White reminds him of… Well. Fairy tales and periodic tables and sadistic codes. “Snow White? Really, John?”

John’s grin softens, and his fingers brush along Sherlock’s hairline. “I was never really alone. I’m a friendly type of person. But like you said, alone is not the same thing as lonely. I…” he licks his lips. “Before you left, I kept thinking of the two of us being alone.” His eyes lose focus. “If it was just you and me, I was alone, like… _us_. We were alone, you and me. Then you were gone, and I was never alone for long.” His eyes find Sherlock’s again, and he smiles. “I can be alone again.”

Sherlock’s fingers loosen their grip on the soft wool but tighten the hold on the body, trying to feel more of the warmth beneath.

John takes that as it is intended. “I’m here.” He frames Sherlock’s face in both his hands.

“It’s silly of me. I was not the one left behind. I shouldn’t be the one who has to acclimatise to being alive.” His head is tilted back, his face resting in John’s hands like a goblet, his eyes swirling in a myriad of unnamed potions.  
John changes the reality of Sherlock’s existence. Sherlock is more than just his brain when he has John as a catalyst. His remarkable mind doesn’t cut itself in an attempt to control the ever-demanding information, but is instead allowed to flow freely, to John, around John, through John. And John, his conductor of light, doesn’t reject it like everyone else, he absorbs it, sends it back in an entirely new shape, letting Sherlock _feel_ it all throughout his body.  
His mind is no longer restricted. It is real. Tangible.

“You,” John says, reverent. He’s not referring to anything specific, just the impossibility of Sherlock, the amazement of the two of them.

“Yes.” Sherlock doesn’t know what question he answered, but it’s not like the answer could have been any different. 

That the question might have been around for quite some time occurs to them the moment their lips meet.

When it ends, Sherlock notices the slight flush on John’s face, the dilated pupils and the quickened respiration. Cataloguing the feelings coursing through him, he knows that he would see the symptoms mirrored in himself and smiles. “Curious.”

John chokes on a laugh, kisses Sherlock again and falls to his knees between the other man’s legs, pulling him closer. “I missed you,” he mumbles into the neck before kissing the skin. “You and your impossibility.”

Sherlock chuckles. “I guess it wouldn’t be completely wrong to claim that I missed your… possibility.”

John giggles into the crook of his neck, Sherlock’s low chuckle vibrating through both of them, before pulling back to look at his friend. “Corny.”

“But true,” Sherlock counters.

In the back of his mind, John ponders the studies that link experiences with death to sexual desire. He also briefly wonders what having someone be returned to a person does to the same… But all he really knows is that he is overflowing with sensations and sentiments, soaring high. He can also see that there is a clear resonance from the man in his arms.

Finally, John half nods in mock-contemplation. “It shouldn’t be possible that I want to ravish you, right now, should it?” He doesn’t expect more of an answer than the quick quirk of lips he’s seeing so close to him. “Or, I don’t know, it should at least bother me, shouldn’t it?” He’s grinning, so it quite obviously doesn’t bother him. Unbothered enough to let his hands slowly explore.

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock shrugs, unconcerned. “Why should it bother me when a faulty and severely…” his breath hitches when John’s hands wander from around him to his thighs and lazily run upwards, “… lacking labelling system fails to apply to me?” His eyes flutter closed.

John grins (part contentment, part smugness… part relief) at Sherlock’s obvious (and physical) reaction and licks a cautious trail up Sherlock’s neck to a spot behind his ear that makes his whole body shudder and sag against John.  
“How you ever managed to make yourself believe that your body is merely transport is beyond me,” John murmurs and softly blows onto the moist skin. 

Sherlock shivers. “It is… not uncommon…” his words stutter to a halt when John’s lips capture that part of skin behind his ear and gently suck on it. “That… th… there may only be sexual attraction after an emotional bond has formed,” he rushes out, before one arm pulls John closer while the other hand makes sure that John’s head doesn’t move from its current spot.

John hums in agreement. “And considering how difficult it is for you to form such a bond…”

Sherlock huffs. “Difficult?” He allows John to pull back far enough to look at him. “Impossible.”

They kiss again, slowly, thoroughly.

Eventually, John stands and urges Sherlock to move back on the bed and lie down, so he can climb over him.

“What about you, then, John?” asks Sherlock when John settles over him, holding himself up on his forearms.

John grins a bit (ruefully? amused? both?), before saying, “I don’t think any of those labels had such a… an all-consuming person like you in mind.” He leans down and kisses Sherlock softly, just a quick brush of lips.

Sherlock’s eyes dart over John’s face. So very different from the John he has seen in his nightly, spooky encounter, even though at the time, it had seemed so real. It was just not possible for some silly ghost to quite get the dark shade of blue right, the peculiar quirk of lips as John smiles, the crinkles to go with it. Sherlock wants to remember every single detail.

“Your brother is going to whack me with his umbrella if I fuck this up, won’t he?”

Sherlock snorts, then remembers ghost-Mycroft, and a barked laugh escapes. “Mycroft swings a mean umbrella.”

“Long live the British government,” John replies, deadpan and nods, once.

It hardly takes a second before they burst into giggles and laughter, John collapsing onto Sherlock. They attempt more kissing, but it keeps being interrupted by more laughter and wide grins.

John eventually gives up and props himself on his forearms again, taking in Sherlock, his eyes shining. “It’s really you. You’re really here.”

Sherlock’s grin melts into a soft look, and he lifts a hand to cup John’s cheek. “My John.”

John hums a rueful laugh and lightly shakes his head, incredulously. “From the very first day on.”

Oh, and Sherlock remembers their first day. Does he ever. He sends John a cocky, confident look (a confidence he does not quite feel, just yet). “Want to see some more?”

“Yes,” John replies, emphatically, nodding. “ _Yes_.”

They come together in another kiss, with their hands immediately roaming and no intention of stopping for any more thoughts that have no place in their bed at that moment.  
Despite the invitation, there is not much _seeing_ going on. The lively colours that once more paint in unison are locked behind often closed eyes. Instead, the concert of laughter, their voices, their bodies moving over bed sheets, their breathing, whimpers, sounds of kissing… _taste_ of kissing. 

This is new. Taste. There are tastes that prolonged cohabitation might cause you to expect, but, like with dreams, imagination does not hold a candle to experience.

There is more as they undress, and Sherlock catalogues the taste, _every_ taste of _everything_ John. His lips, his tongue, the skin on his neck, his arm and torso… He wants more, so he urges John to lie on his back and offer more tastes to discover, all the while being rewarded with sounds he has never heard John make. 

“Sherlock…” It’s hardly more than a whisper. Perhaps a prayer.

Sherlock’s eyes are open and seeing, once more, combining his senses. He has seen a penis up close before, but never erect, and certainly never with any sexual interest of his own. He takes in the veins and the slight curve, the dark blush and the glistening tip, and he runs a delicate finger along its length, making it twitch and John shudder and moan. He is mesmerised and excited, knowing that he was the one to elicit that reaction.

He smiles before he once more closes his eyes and leans in to kiss the side, revelling at the received whimper. He returns, bolder, more curious. He opens his mouth to taste and lick, the texture feeling different once more when it is his tongue that does the touching. When he reaches the leaking tip, the taste is near overwhelming; so many chemical components, and yet he believes to clearly taste John beneath it.

Sherlock notices his own arousal with hardly any urgency, but instead a sense of fascination that he has found a human being to cause it.

John on the other hand _does_ experience urgency, and while he is not generally averse to let Sherlock explore, once he reaches the point where he shakes from head to toe, he nevertheless pulls Sherlock up to settle over him and kisses him, hungrily. He tastes Sherlock and himself and _them_ , and it tastes, feels, sounds and looks like it has always been this way.

He guides Sherlock’s hand between them and shows him the long, even strokes that he knows will give him release. He can feel that Sherlock is hard, though not quite as desperately as John himself, and he wants to be clear-headed when he tends to his very new and very inexperienced lover.

It takes no more than a minute for John to tumble over the edge, Sherlock staring wide-eyed between them, watching the pulses he can feel against the palm of his hand.

Sherlock releases John’s only slowly softening member and lets the man pant for a bit in silence, as he curiously reaches out and runs his fingers through the ejaculate on John’s stomach. There has never been a particular interest in his own essence that he has always viewed as a mere – and occasionally unavoidable – nuisance. He is more knowledgeable when it comes to ejaculate in the form of stains, evidence, data. This new (and not entirely – or even primarily – work-related) interest is intriguing on its own.

He tests the texture and consistency between his fingers, draws images on John’s warm skin with it to see it become clear and the shine dim as it dries more quickly when spread out. He leans in and tastes it, comparing it to the earlier pre-come, finding it brilliantly different. Brilliant.  
He doesn’t even notice John’s breathing even out, nor does he realise he is being watched, fondly.

John reaches for Sherlock’s arms. “Come here…” he guides his friend, and Sherlock follows into the requested kiss.

Sherlock is puzzled when John pulls him further up on the bed, still, after the kiss.

“Like this,” John says, patiently, and directs Sherlock to straddle his chest. John props himself up on Sherlock’s pillows and takes a hold of Sherlock’s hips, leaning in and taking him into his mouth without preamble.

The arousal that Sherlock has only marginally noticed, before, now definitely has his attention, and he instinctively jerks forward and has to steady himself against the headboard with his hands. He intends to apologise, but John ignores everything but his quest to give pleasure.

John is somewhat pleased with himself that he managed to pull back in time at Sherlock’s reaction, or he’s quite sure he would have gagged. He has done this a grand total of once, and that had been hardly more than an experiment. This time, he wants to please, pleasure and convey every feeling he harbours for this man.  
He reaches around Sherlock’s hips and cups two ridiculously firm buttocks, massaging them in time with the rhythmic sucking of his mouth. 

Considering Sherlock’s panting, trembling and whimpering, John doubts that this will take long, and he doesn’t really mind; he can already feel his jaw ache. He would have to practise this more, then.

Sherlock finally manages to scrape together enough brain cells to make himself look down, and the picture presented to him is nearly his undoing. He keeps himself steady against the headboard with one hand and reaches down with the other to cup John’s jaw. He can feel John’s cheeks hollow and relax, rhythmically, can feel the muscles on the underside of the jaw undulate with the movement of the tongue pressing against his dick.

The hand makes John open his eyes and look up, seeing an angelic vision of debauchery.

Sherlock sees the same thing looking down, and it’s like his sight is tunnelling inwards, or outwards, shifting inside a darkening vertigo, and his world narrows down to Johnjohnjohnjohn.

 

There is sure to be moving around, but Sherlock only becomes truly aware of his surroundings, again, when he has been laid out on his back to John’s right with John leaning over him and smiling tenderly.

“Welcome back.”

Sherlock covers John’s hand lying on his chest with one of his own and breathes deeply.

“Alright?” John asks.

Sherlock nods. Of course he’s alright. He’s at the same time exhausted and energised, buzzing with distracting sentiment while seeing as clearly as ever.  
“I… didn’t expect to react quite so favourably to this.”

John’s face does something Sherlock is unfamiliar with on him. “Good. Good,” John says, sounding distracted, then pauses. “But, Sherlock, you would… you would tell me if you’re ever uncomfortable with something, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock huffs. “Have you ever known me to do something I didn’t want to do?” he asks, somewhat incredulous.

John just looks at him, serious. When he sees comprehension dawn in Sherlock expression, he continues. “I think that if you believe that you _need_ to do something, you would do it regardless of what you want.”

Sherlock guiltily bites his lip before he realises that he’s doing it and makes himself stop. “Am I still to expect your angry outburst, then?”

John’s eyes water, but he’s smiling and lifting the hand in his to his lips and kisses the knuckles. “Not right now.”

“But sometime?” It’s not like he doesn’t think he deserves the anger, he just doesn’t feel like dealing with it, right now.

John’s smile grows wider and some of the sombre shadows dissolve. “Probably the first time you scare the shit out of me by doing something needlessly dangerous.”

Sherlock’s lip quirks.

“Trust me?” John asks, knowing the answer but needing to ask, anyway.

“Of course,” Sherlock answers. “I… would ask for patience in return.”

John raises an eyebrow.

“I am not always aware of the necessary amount of communication, as you well know; however, that does not mean that I do not trust you.”

“I know.”

Sherlock’s mouth twists. “The obvious exception that was my miscalculation of the depth of your emotional attachment aside,” he forces out and continues quickly, changing the train of thought: “And my brother would tell me that you never would have stayed if you hadn’t been willing to give me your patience, in the first place, so I will not ask for it. I know I have it.”

John smiles and can’t resist the urge to lean down for sweet kiss.

Sherlock returns it before murmuring against John’s lips. “I will hope instead to one day regain your trust in me.”

John squeezes his eyes shut. “I trust you more than I probably should.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees.

“I love you,” John offers instead of the full trust he cannot quite give just yet. His traitorous eyes water, again.

“And I you.”

John sniffs, once, rubs his eyes and clears his throat. “I guess on top of the miracle you pulled out of your hat, yesterday, that is enough for the time being.” His grin is lopsided but true.

Sherlock smiles widely in answer, the words of his third ghostly visitor ringing in his head. “We have only begun scratching at the surface of a bond that has every chance to last a lifetime,” he recites, dutifully.

John looks at him in amazement. “You believe that,” he says – it’s not a question.

“I know that.” He has been told, after all.

John beams at him. “Extraordinarily accurate deduction.”

“We will have to prove it,” Sherlock adds.

John nods. 

“Could be dangerous.”

John interrupts the nodding in favour of a wide grin and leans down, stopping only just before their lips touch. “You know just what to say to me.”

Sherlock slings one arm around John’s middle and runs the hand of the other into his hair, holding him in place. “And you know how to respond.”

 

The following deep kiss isn’t just a promise for more; it’s a binding contract between soaring spirits finally at home.

 

**END**

_120927_

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